


Pops

by gh0st1nn1t



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abelism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Good Sibling Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Happy Toby Smith | Tubbo, Happy TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit Has ADHD (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Tourette's Syndrome, Traitor Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), tics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29292531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gh0st1nn1t/pseuds/gh0st1nn1t
Summary: Tommy lived with tics all his life, adapting to keeping them hidden throughout the day, not letting a single hint slip. Then there was exile, then Dream, then Technoblade, then another war, and honestly? Tommy couldn't bring himself to keep it hidden anymore.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, TommyInnit & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit
Comments: 12
Kudos: 581





	Pops

**Author's Note:**

> AYO IMPORTANT NOTE PLS READ!!!!!  
> in this, tommy suffers from violent tics as well as calm ones, if you have tics that can be trigered by other tics, please put yourself first, dont feel pressured to read at all, if you may be in danger by reading, pls just dont, you are more important than some fic <3 if you think you will be safe, im not gonna stop you, but if you think even slighty that decriptions of tics may trigger urs, pls just skip this :]
> 
> THIS IS IN NO WAY MEANT TO BE A REPRESENTATION OF THE REAL PEOPLE, THIS IS JUST THEIR CHARACTERS, LIKE ALL MY WORK, ITS ABOUT THEIR CHARACTERS, 
> 
> okay now tws//  
> -manipulation (in the past from dream)  
> -tics, obviously  
> -abelism/bigotry towards tics  
> -hinted neglect (not going to get a diagnosis for severe tics)  
> -tic attacks that get pretty violent (hitting self, painful head jrks, etc)  
> -if i miss any, pls tell me!!!
> 
> i myself dont suffer from tics this severe, occasional small ones or painful shivers but thats it, so if i get any inacuracies, please tell me!!! i did research, checked out official doctors websites on how to handle tics/tic attacks, checked cc's with tourettes stories and made sure what i wrote doesnt come across as inaccurate or offensive
> 
> again, i am not a professional,pls dont use this as a guide to help friends/family with tourettes, this was not meant to be informational, just fluff for neurodivergent representtion

Tommy was exhausted.

Not just mentally, though he knew for a fact that if brains could take naps, his would be hibernating. 

He was physically exhausted too. 

Restraining tics all day was painful, more painful that he had remembered. He was used to keeping them hidden, biting the inside of his cheek and subtly holding his head in place whenever he was in front of people. The few tics that did slip out always got him into trouble, like when he and Wilbur were being escorted out of Manberg and Tommy had loudly announced, “Fuck you!” in a voice that was clearly not his own, but no one thought anything of it, dismissing it as the boy pulling some sort of childish antic. Or the time during Schlatt’s funeral he had yelled, “Bitch boy!” In a squeaky voice, everyone joining in and swearing at the mans grave.

But in exile, he was alone, and he was free to let the tics play out. Whenever Dream visited, he would hold them in for as long as he could, often sending him spiraling into a violent tic attack, but the man hated seeing him tic, so he hid it as often as possible.

The only reason Dream knew was an incident in exile, one that pained him to look back on. 

“Armor in the hole, Tommy,” Dream’s voice was sweet, far too sweet for a man holding an ignited stick of tnt. The boy complied, fumbling to remove the hastily-made iron armor he was clad in. His hands reached towards the pickaxe hanging from his belt and Dream frowned, “Just the armor, no tools today,” he smiled, the mask tilted up just enough to show it. 

Tommy gulped, standing back and watching with a blank expression as Dream ignited the dynamite, dropping it into the hole. He could feel a neck twitch about to happen, so he reached up, pretending to just scratch his neck as he held it in place, muscles growing tired from holding back the tics all day. He could feel the tics before they happened, as if they bubbled inside of him like a shaken up fizzy drink. 

“Aren’t you going to thank me, Tommy? I let you keep-”

He was interrupted by a sharp clap from the boy, head jerking to the side, high-pitched whistles coming from his mouth. Just as he started to ask what the fuck that was, Tommy’s head tilted forwards, and in a lighter voice than usual, announced, “Fuck off! Fuck off!” His words were accompanied by yet another whistle, two more claps and,  _ just to make it better _ , the heel of his hand straight to his face, bruising his cheek.

Dream’s eyebrows furrowed, and he tore the mask off, showing his furious expression along with the ash that collected from the explosions. “What did you just say to me?” His words were booming, a threatening aura hanging in the air around him.

Tommy’s eyes widened, “No- nonono, Dream, please, c’mon man, let me explain, come o-” He was cut off by yet another whistle, “Dream, no, please- c’mon, we’re friends! Don’t-” he was interrupted by a pop of his lips and another clap. “I’m sorry, please-” pop, “Come on, man, please don’t-” pop, whistle, pop.

He scoffed, “Tommy, stop fucking around. I’ve changed my mind, everything in the hole. Everything. Now,” he ignored the violent twitching of the boys head jerking to the side, making a point of standing impatiently as Tommy dumped his items into the pit once again.

“Dream, really, man, I’m-” Another lip pop, “I’m really sorry, please-” whistle, head jerk, clap, lip pop, click. Tommy gave up on talking, settling for clenching and unclenching his fists, popping his lips and silently basking in gratefulness that the tic attack, while yes, it was annoying how his body jerked unwillingly, how his words were cut off by involuntary sounds, he was just glad it wasn’t a violent one. He was sure if his tics got bad enough to start hurting Dream, there would be no mercy, and the boy would be killed instantly. 

Dream was silent, waiting for the explosion before looking towards the boy, “Well? Explain,” he barked, eyebrows furrowed, a sneer resting on his face. 

Tommy attempted to breathe through the jerks of his head, sometimes just a tilt, other times slamming his ear into his shoulder. “I have-” pop, “I have tics, I can’t-” clap, “-control them. I’m-” whistle, pop, pop, clap, “I’m really sorry man, I can’t-” whistle, “I can’t control what I say-” head jerk, “I don’t mean it, I’m really-” pop, head jerk, pop, pop, head jerk, “I’m really sorry-”

Dream raised a hand to silence him, “I don’t care, just...try not to do that around me.”

“I can’t-” pop, head jerk, pop, pop, whistle, “I can’t control them that well anymore,” his words bled into one another as he hurried to get a single sentence out, “I’m sorry-” clap, clap, clap, another fist to the face. 

He seemed displeased, sneering down at the boy, “Try, for once in your life.”

Tommy had bitten back a rebuttal that he had hidden them and kept them masked for years, surely he would be allowed to let them out now he was alone.

For some godly reason, Dream had never brought up the tics again, only mentioning them in an unpleasant tone whenever he actually saw the boy tic, which was...rare to say the least. Tommy had expected him to use his knowledge of the tics to blackmail him somehow, or taunt him with it when he was surrounded by people. 

He was thankful for it, if not unnerved. 

When he’d hidden out with Techno, the movements came naturally, his brother already having knowledge of the tics that riddled Tommy. Each click and snap and pop and head jerk went ignored, which he was grateful for. Hell, Techno even sat with him when he had the tic attacks, body twisting painfully, slamming his hands against him, punching his collarbone and popping his lips, slamming a fist against his cheek, or even against the wall. Neither of them were good at consoling, so Techno just sat by him, knowing there was nothing he could do. 

Techno covered for him in battles with the mobs that plagued the caves beneath them, shielding Tommy with his body as the boy jerked uncontrollably. More often than not, the tics would make him drop the weapon he would inevitably be holding, and Techno would be careful to step on it and keep it away from the mobs grasps as he fought them away. The moment Tommy had it back under control, he would gently tug the back of Techno’s cape, and the man would step off the weapon and allow him to pick it back up, still waving his axe wildly towards the monsters.

The two were not close, no, they’d never been close, but Tommy still made an effort to thank Techno more than usual, and Techno often played into his tics, making the boy less embarrassed.

Staying with his brother was merely a blur, but the little moments stuck out to him, and he would always smile thinking of it, no matter how much rage he felt towards the man. 

The time when Tommy had been ticcing violently all day, hitting himself in the face, throwing what he was holding, contorting himself painfully. They had gotten bad enough that he found himself unable to do simple tasks, and he slid down the wall in the living room, sitting there miserably, alone. Then Techno came. Techno had sat with him for hours, a worn down copy of ‘Art Of War’ in his hand, reading the pages aloud. He draped his cape over the two of them, Tommy leaning his head on Technos shoulder. Techno paused in between tics, often repeating sentences that were muffled by Tommy’s movements.

Another incident that had stuck out was the week when Tommy’s verbal tics had calmed down, which he was thankful for, but another tic had increased, and that tic was when he would ball his fists and hit himself in the head. That, he was less thankful for. It had started on a monday, and by that wednesday, he had been handed one of Wilbur’s old beanies. Techno had modified it so it was more like a helmet inside, and it still felt and looked like a beanie, but each and every hit towards his head would be absorbed by the protective helmet inside. Tommy rarely took it off, and even after their departure, he still found himself tugging on the beanie, even when it wasn’t necessary.

A little thing Techno did was play into his tics, something he noticed made the boy less embarrassed. When Tommy’s head twitched to the side and he had yelled, “Sword, sword, sword!”, Techno had not made fun of him, no, he had smiled and offered to make a game, seeing who could yell ‘sword’ the loudest, winner receiving a gold block. The two had spent almost a quarter of an hour simply laughing and screaming that word as loud as they could, genuinely enjoying themselves.

Or the time Techno had been ranting about an escape plan for when they returned to L’Manberg and Tommy had popped and announced, “Get into it!” He had expected punishment for interrupting the important speech, but all Techno did was throw his head back and laugh, eyes bright, a grin tugging at his lips. He had clapped as he laughed, responding in a breathy, laughy tone, “I like that one!” He smiled, seeing Tommy join in with his laughter. 

Tommy had noticed that his brother constantly made an effort to make him more comfortable, and, even if they weren’t close, he couldn’t help but appreciate it.

Still, every time he ticced, the image of Dream towering over him, dynamite sticks sparking in hand, always rose behind his eyelids, and the sound of his screaming echoed in his head, no matter what Techno did.

But now, Dream was behind bars with nothing to entertain him other than a faulty clock and the chips in the obsidian walls, and their problems were gone.

And Techno was retired in the snow, for what felt like the fifth time, tending to a small farm and a few stray animals he had offered to take in. No more fighting.

The citizens of L’Manberg were finally free, even if tensions were still high, and paranoia crept through their bones, they were free, and that was all they could ever wish for. Smiles were more common to see now, and friendly gestures had eventually became less and less intimidating. Flinching eventually became more abnormal to see, along with injuries, and L’Manberg was finally healing.

Tubbo visited from time to time, returning from Snowchester to visit Tommy in L’Manberg, or what was left of it.

Still, the crater in the ground remained just that, a crater.

But above it, New, New L’Manberg was thriving.

There was no filling in the crater, no, it was beyond repair. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t build above it. Picturesque buildings towered over the crater, held up with pillars and steel skeletons. Paths lead from door-to-door, eventually expanding to be a sturdy wooden floor that stretched over the pocket in the ground. Sooner than expected, L’Manberg had arisen again.

Warm rays of light were cast across the ground from the golden streetlamps, new homes and shops scattered across the ground, looking just like before. The decorations were back, and here to stay. Ghostburs lanterns had been repaired, and they were hung beneath the wooden flooring, illuminating the crater. A staircase led down into the rubble, and in the centre of it was a gravestone.

Wilbur’s gravestone.

They had finally been able to call a place home long enough to arrange a funeral for the man, and his ghost had cried when his eyes fell upon the carefully sculpted stone headstone in Tommy’s hands. 

Tubbo had been a great help in rebuilding, spending over half of his visiting time by Tommy’s side, hammer in hands as they crafted yet another home for citizens to return to. 

In a surprisingly short amount of time, the whole city had been rebuilt, and it was even more glorious than before, flags waving high in the air, the old uniforms kept in a glass display case in the rebuilt version of Eret’s museum. In fact, the king had retired his castle to be a community space, living in a small cottage-like wooden structure in the rebuilt city.

An aura of happiness hung in the air.

Tubbo had visited again, after it was finished being built, and he and Tommy strolled across the paths under the moonlight. Tommy had been so carefree lately that masking his tics had fully slipped his mind.

“Oh, Tubzo, did Ghostbur tell you about his new library?” he asked, leading the boy into the homely building with a grin.

“No, big man, I thought his library was in the sewers?” Tubbo asked, eyes scanning the small room in awe, admiring the neatly restored covers of books he had once seen in Ghostbur’s possession.

Tommy smiled further, “He built a new one, made me carry all the books up here, fuckin bitch,” he muttered, although his eyes still sparkled with excitement as he stood back, no venom behind his words.

“I think it looks great! I think Puffy mentioned having a few spare books if Ghostbur needs a few more,” Tubbo hummed to himself as he walked towards the shelves, running a finger across the spines of the books. They were left in a comfortable silence as Tubbo took in each book, reading the titles, flicking through the pages of a few of them, checking out the photos on the covers.

Cutting through the silence were whistles, clicks, pops and claps, and with each one, Tubbo leaned back to see Tommy making the sounds, sat atop one of the tables, legs swinging back and forth. He opted not to mention it, returning to scanning the books in awe.

Then Tommy had whistled and yelled in a sharp voice, “Fuck!”.

Tubbo whirled around, eyes darting towards his friend, making sure he wasn’t hurt. “You okay over there big man?” 

“Hm?” Tommy looked up towards Tubbo, “Yeah, why?” Confusion was evident on his face, shown through his furrowed eyebrows and nervous smile, along with the slight shaking of his hands. His mind was racing, he thought he held that tic back, shit, what was he supposed to tell Tubbo? It felt as if the reflex in his mind to lie and lie and lie had just shut down, and no matter how hard Tommy racked his brain for excuses, he came up with nothing.

A frown settled onto Tubbo’s face, “You’ve been making some noises over there and you literally just screamed fuck,” he seemed worried as his mind raced, scurrying around and trying to make sense of the situation.

“Ah, tics, my bad,” Tommy shrugged, continuing to look down at his shoes as he swung his legs rhythmically, head jerking to the side.

“Tics? What, those little bug things you get on cats?” Tubbo shifted the books in his hands, slipping them back onto the shelves and striding across the library to take a seat beside the boy.

His head was thrown back with laughter, echoing around the small room, “No, no, not those-” he cut himself off with another round of boisterous, carefree laughs, “That’s a Tubbo moment right there,” his lips quirked upwards into a grin, shoulders still shaking with the silent remains of laughter.

“Just tell me what a tic is, arsehole!” Tubbo pouted, but there was still a smile shining through his pissed-off facade, shoving his friends shoulder lightly.

Tommy paused momentarily to regain himself, making sure he was able to speak without bursting into snickers again, “Like, you know when I do this?” He imitated himself scrunching up his nose, getting a hum in response, “I can’t control it, it just sorta-” He cut himself off with a chirp-like whistle, chuckling softly, “Well, there we go, you see what I mean?”

“Wait, so you can’t control it?”

“Not at all. I mean, I can hold em back for a little bit, which is what I usually do, but then-” pop, “then they get worse later, which is why after all the wars ‘n shit I would go lock myself up in my room,” Tommy shrugged, unphased, “They’re not usually too bad though, just annoying,” his head jerked, and his hands clapped.

“What, like tourettes?”

“I got no clue man, Phil never-” whistle, pop, pop, “Phil never bothered to go get it-” clap, pop, head jerk, “get it checked out,” Tommy seemed unbothered as his lips moved on their own, constantly making popping noises along with chirping whistles, hands moving between claps and clicks. 

Tubbo was quiet momentarily, debating on what to say as he took in the constant movements Tommy did, “Is it always like this?”

“Eh, this is a good day,” Tommy paused, feeling another pop bubble up, “It’s usually worse if I’m upset-” clap, head jerk, “Upset, or I have nothing to focus on.” He shifted to look at his friends expression, worried to see pity, disgust or guilt, something he found was common when ticcing in front of others.

Instead, Tubbo looked more interested than anything else, genuinely intrigued on his friends condition rather than pitying him. “Who else knows, because I’ve never heard anyone mention it?”

“Literally no one but like, three or four people? I mean,” chirp, click, head jerk, pop, “obviously Phil knows, he’s a bitch but he knows. Uh, Techno knows too, fuckin’ hate him, but I gotta admit, he was pretty help-” pop, clap, pop, pop, “helpful, so was Wilbur, actually, he knew too. Then it’s just you and Dream,” Tommy shrugged, internally grinning that saying the name no longer struck fear into his heart.

There was a pause before Tommy’s eyes lit up and a devilish smile rested on his face, “You’ll never guess how Dream found-” clap, “found out.”

“How?” Tubbo shared his mischievous grin, adjusting himself on the table so he was sat, legs crossed, facing Tommy, head resting atop his folded hands, elbows leaning on his knees.

“Okay, so we were just talkin’ n’ shit, this was exile times, by the way,” he added on, pausing to allow a few more whistles before continuing, “And he was doin’ this whole dramatic speech thing, and all I could think was ‘wow, he’s an absolute fuckin’ bitch’, and then-” pop, whistle, pop, clap, “-then out of nowhere I just tell him to fuck off. Oh my god, he was so pissed, it was great,” Tommy roared with laughter, and so did Tubbo.

Tubbo was surprisingly helpful with assisting with the tics, asking Tommy constantly how he wanted Tubbo’s help and what he could do. The journal in his enderchest found itself in his hands more often than usual, the notes at the back being taken in by his eyes every time Tommy had a tic attack. 

He was nothing like Techno or Wilbur though, no soft glances or quiet reading and hugs, no, Tubbo was still as mischievous as ever, and Tommy appreciated it. Although what his brothers did definitely helped, he found that Tubbo’s methods were much more comforting.

When the two had been repairing the floor of Tommy’s house after a particular prank from Callahan and Tommy had brushed against a texture that sent goosebumps spiralling across his skin and dread coursing through his veins, he had delved into a painful tic attack. The tics had already had a pretty violent day, and the beanie was tugged over his head, but that had been the last straw.

Tubbo was different in the way he handled it, offhandedly mentioning, “It’s pretty stuffy in here, you wanna go get some fresh air with me?” when he noticed Tommy struggling to work while his hands constantly flew towards his face, pounding angrily against the sturdy material of the helmet. On their way out, Tubbo grabbed ‘Chirp’ from his enderchest, leading Tommy towards the bench, making sure his grip was loose enough so Tommy’s hand tics wouldn’t be restrained. 

The two sat on the bench, listening to the music disc and talking like normal, Tubbo making an effort to ignore the tics that riddled Tommy. He was surprisingly good at picking up body language, and he knew Tommy loved making jokes about his tics when he was in a good mood, but during tic attacks, simply acknowledging a single tic was enough to send him spiralling.

So there they sat, listening to music and forging plans on how to prank Callahan back with grins and laughter, even if Tommy’s hands jerked to slam against his collarbones, muffled by the weighted scarf Tubbo gifted him, they were okay.

Things were looking up. 


End file.
